


steady hands

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: Angst, Art, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Passage of time, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: Damon's lay beside him, prostrate - bathed in the high, sharp, midsummer light which filters in through the window to Graham's room - and lovely. He always picks up colour during the long summer holidays, skin goldening. Graham would be jealous, if it were anyone else. But he's not. Damon is resplendent, and he loves him.





	steady hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is an odd one. I find it difficult to write anything more than 5k, but I can write 5k in around two days if I'm inspired. Anything more, and my brain seems to drag its heels, and provide me with either too many ideas to the point where I'm unsure how I'll ever finish, or too few, so I have no idea how to extrapolate to a final scene and I'll either cut short or skip. If it feels at all disjointed, it's cause it was written over a rather disconnected two weeks.
> 
> Another weird thing - this started off with a T rating in my head, was gonna be four vignettes, first with Damon (pretty much how it is), the next with Alex (but without leading to the suggestion of smut, whilst still being more suggestive than the first), and one with Dave, wherein Graham's frustrated on the bus, much how it is, but Dave offers his arm for Graham to draw on. It would then finish with Graham seeing through his thoughts at the end of the first, in 2015. It's very evident that this did not occur.
> 
> It evolved quite naturally, with me apparently starting a parable-like thing about how using one thing as a substitute for another is not a good idea. I hope that comes across without seeming that I'm preaching.
> 
> Finally, a huge thank you to glowinginahuddle on tumblr (has fics posted on here under the pseud essexgrl68). They've been a huge help to me in educating me on a lot of the moments and mannerisms that could act as potential inspiration, and they're just a genuinely lovely person. Thank you!
> 
> Anyways, sorry for how long that took. This is unbetaed, and with the length of it there may be more errors than usual, even for me. Still, I hope you enjoy it.

Damon's lay beside him, prostrate - bathed in the high, sharp, midsummer light which filters in through the window to Graham's room - and lovely. He always picks up colour during the long summer holidays, skin goldening. Graham would be jealous, if it were anyone else. But he's not. Damon is resplendent, and he loves him.

His bedsheets are crinkled where they're lay, and Graham is basking in the ease of it all. Sharing their space is effortless and wonderful, something they've always done, but with their recent mutual admissions of interest and feelings, they've grown closer, to the point where just simply being in each other's presence - silent, considering, comfortable - is one of the activities Graham looks forward to most doing with the other boy. One of them.

Graham's lips curve slightly, memories of them together spreading a pleasant warmth through him, but he's sated, content, happy just existing beside the person he most loves. His fringe falls over his eyes as he turns to face Damon, hair softly scratching fricative on the pillow. Their faces are only a foot apart, the single bed barely having room for them both, and he can clearly see each individual line of Damon's eyelashes, how pink his lips are, the subtle shift of his shoulders and back as he breathes. Freckles dot his back. There's a soft line of shadow highlighting his deltoid where his arms are crossed below his cheek.

Damon's not asleep, just lazing like a cat in the sun, and Graham thinks it suits him; he's a very feline person - slim and slinking, brash and feisty. He's beautiful, glowing.

The corner of Damon's lips quirks up. "What?" He drawls it, sleepiness pulling the vowel longer, and low, smile audible.

"Nothing." Graham's just looking at him, taking in the form of him, from the spikes of dishevelled hair, down the elegant shallow 's' of his back, and on past the backs of his legs, his calves, to his feet, crossed at the ankles. The only clothed part of them is their boxers, the room warm enough just through the ambient heat from the sun through the window. It's a lovely day, one for remembering.

Graham wants to paint him one day - not just a sketch in passing - a whole, day-long affair, Damon sprawled and regal in a chair or something, looking off into the distance with troubled majesty. That's something for later, when they're both older, and the other boy's countenance has grown a little more rugged, a little more world-weary. He's too princely for it right now, features smooth and beautiful with just that edge of femininity Graham finds fascinating.

Damon huffs a laugh, obviously realising Graham's looking at him just 'cause he can. That's what they sometimes do. He can't count how many times he's been talking to Damon, only to realise the boy's head is balanced on his palm, fingers curled and knuckles against his cheek, watching Graham with a look between being bereft and infatuated. And that was before they both knew how they both felt. Now the looks he gets are lovestruck or incendiary. Besides, he knows Damon loves being looked at, preens whenever Graham feels comfortable enough to indulge himself in the simple act of just admiring, after years of breaking gazes and avoiding eye contact.

Graham keeps skimming his eyes over him, observing the planes of him, the slopes and edges. His eyes alight on the boy's scapulae: they're sharp and evident. Graham could imagine wings there, broad and feathered, only, if he painted that, he's pretty sure he'd annoy Damon, not about the painting but about the implications of idolatry; Damon's not exactly the most humble of people, but he's always been wary of what happens if you allow yourself to believe another person is perfect. Damon would squirm, pull back into himself. He doesn't want that. And besides - what if someone were to find it?

It does spark an idea, though. He enjoys showing his reverence in whatever way he can, like Damon. He's been serenaded, had songs written for him. Sometimes Damon kisses him, kisses every inch of him, wanting nothing more in return that to witness the effect he has on Graham: the state he can reduce him to.

So he peels himself of the bed, a part of him wanting to remain next to the other boy and just hover in the half-slumber they were sharing. Damon makes a small noise of dissatisfaction, but hearing that Graham's padding steps have no urgency, and following his progress to the side of the room opposite the door, he obviously relaxes again, with a little sigh. Graham's at his desk, where he keeps his art supplies, rifling through a drawer before realising that he's not sure if anything he has is suitable. He deflates a little, feeling silly at his romantic idea, and halfheartedly continues nudging things around, trying to find anything that might work and be safe on the skin.

Actually... He does have something. One of his mum's old eye pencils his mum let him have years ago - after he'd tried drawing on his hand - still practically untouched, his mum not wanting it due to the formula being too hard, and not smudging enough when she wanted it to, which makes him think it might leave clean lines. He's kept it alongside his colouring pencils, and then forgotten about it after he moved to paints, and the odd greyscale pencil sketch. He prefers the permanence and boldness of oil paints.

He exclaims quietly in triumph, inspects its point, and being happy that it's sharp enough, closes the drawer and strides over to his single bed. Damon hums quizzically, curious at Graham's buoyant return. Graham just seats himself cross-legged in the space he vacated, knees brushing Damon's hip, his shoulder. The blond boy cracks an eye open, opens his mouth to speak, but Graham shushes him with a single finger to his lips. "Relax."

Damon grins in acknowledgement, his eye going heavy-lidded and closing again, exhaling and nuzzling into his arm as he returns to rest again. Graham watches him for a second, the gentleness of his features as he lies there. For the umpteenth time, he's struck by how lucky they both are to be with someone who dotes on them, honestly, and unabashedly.

He takes the pencil in his hand, adjusting his grip, pursing his lips as he thinks. He splays his left hand at the small of Damon's back, skimming his little finger back and forth idly, as he maps out the planes of him. Feathers are out of the question, obviously - maybe one day? - and he feels like a bit of abstraction. He briskly tracks the pencil in a sketchy line following his rough knowledge of the shoulder's musculature, a diagonal slant from the spine to just above shoulder socket: the trapezius. The line's an immediate result, the colour dense. Graham tilts his head consideringly - these are two very different mediums than he's used to, skin, and eyeliner. There's more give to the skin than paper, or canvas, with an underlying firmness Graham knows well. Every rise and fall of Damon's back alters the line slightly. A living canvas.

Graham mirrors the stroke as evenly as he can on Damon's right. Inquisitiveness is radiating from the blond, less for what Graham's doing - that much is fairly evident - but for what he's actually drawing. "I hope it'll wash off." Damon's voice is low and sluggish, face smushed as it is in the crook of his arm.

"I should think so." He says it with mock sternness, lightly scraping away a small clump of the pigment which fell outside the line, with the tip of his thumbnail. He leans down to kiss Damon's right cheekbone softly where it's turned to him. "It's just eyeliner, love." The gentleness of feeling infuses in his tone.

Graham moves to line Damon's deltoids, pausing when he hums in the back of his throat. "I'd love to see you wearing it." He peeks through a slitted eye at Graham, grinning lasciviously when he blushes. The blond stretches then, deliberately, pushing up through the balls of his feet and tensing his legs, and back, before relaxing loosely, shamelessly, chuckling as Graham flusters further.

Graham bats at his flank half-heartedly, smiling despite himself. "Maybe, if you're very good." He tries for haughty, but there's too much laughter in his voice. He draws two roughly parallel lines down from the nape of Damon's neck, following the two ridges of muscle which follow the spine, slowing as he reaches the dip at the base, continuing teasingly to just below the waistband of the other boy's boxers, smirking when he shifts slightly, ticklish. He bites a nail, idly, unsure of what to do next, scanning through possibilities.

He starts another diagonal line from one of the ones bordering his spine, beginning level with where Damon's waist tapers, and following the curve where it sweeps around the side of his hip, then repeats. He finds the lowest of his ribs, leaving a bold sweep superimposed on either side. He's left with eight large sectors, and one long narrow on down the middle of Damon's back. Graham glances at his face, feeling his heart swell at how relaxed he looks. They are each other's solace.

He begins a series of 'v' shapes down Damon's back between the twin lines, each one converging at the groove of the spine. Occasionally a line doesn't turn out smoothly, the knobbles of the blond boy's spine affecting it, but for the most part it works, each arrow two inches deep, and the spacing pretty damn regular. "Gray, that's actually really nice. I could fall asleep right here."

"Go ahead, if you're tired." He brushes some of Damon's hair from his face, smiling tenderly as he pushes into his hand.

"Might do. Don't wanna 'cause it's so nice, but I might not help it." Graham nods once, a rhetorical motion, and sets back to his task. He'd be happy to help Damon sleep. They've always shared elements of insomnia, but Damon can really drive himself into the ground anyway, and without proper sleep, Graham sometimes worries he'll burn out. He moves to Damon's upper back, observing. He doesn't want anything too complex, too dense. He considers the approximately crescent-shaped lines at the junctures of his arms and shoulders. Hmm.

He tries to keep the basic shape in each of the further arcs, the radii increasing subsequently for each by a constant amount, but remaining as concentric as he can manage, bearing in mind the malleability of skin, how it shifts in the very act of leaving lines. As he reaches the borders of the spine and scapulae, he has them join, seamlessly as he can manage. Any time he strays, he gently uses the edge of his nail to scratch away the excess.

He sits back, stretching his arms and back for a moment or two and taking in the bigger picture. It looks okay, so far - the increasing detail resulting in it looking better, but still unbalanced, what with six more spaces to fill. Damon has fallen asleep in the time it took him to do this, breaths slow and deep and soft, face slack, peaceful. Graham feels honoured when he gets to see him like this. It's different in the full light of day, fully exposed and visible. It touches him that he's trusted this deeply by another person, loved this much.

At the lowest sectors, the ones beneath Damon's waistline, Graham draws lines which follow the curves left there initially, but each one grows steeper in gradient, so it looks the segments of a fan. Each one starts about an inch lower down the spine, two for every one of the 'v' shapes. He does the reverse of this in the two spaces directly above, and Graham admires the result when it's completed - the stark shapes accentuate Damon's trim waist. Two left, just beneath his scapulae. What to do?

He feels like a little bit of anarchy, after all the order he's had so far. He lets his more impressionistic side out, leaving swirls and flares and spiralling structures in his wake. There is no symmetry here, and it works. Graham pulls out of his focus and notes how the light in the room has changed - more orange now, like juice, vivid. But darker, the sun having descended. Damon's beautiful, face soft in shadow. He wishes he could capture this perfectly, wishes he had a camera. He extricates himself as carefully as he can, shuffling towards his dresser to grab his sketchbook and a more conventional pencil.

It's a relief to return to a medium he's more comfortable with, though he did enjoy the adventure of drawing on Damon. He leans against the door to his room, not wanting to risk disturbing Damon's well-needed slumber. He clutches the pencil tightly and in fricative jerks of the pencil on the page, renders the sight before him in graphite. From this distance, the more intricate patterns, and the areas on Damon's far side don't wholly translate, so he merely suggests them with his shading, using stippling on the side closer so he doesn't interrupt the general shapes. It's rough, and basic - features hinted at, more than realistically rendered, but it offers a dreamlike quality - a haze - that Graham quite likes.

He closes over the sketchpad briskly, flits back across the room to leave it where it usually sits, and cautiously returns to lie beside Damon's prone body, quickly finding sleep. 

\---

College has become a mess of drink and smoking for Graham, and tonight's no exception. His room's smokey, his senses are pleasantly dulled with alcohol, and he's got a fucking pretty friend with which he wants to share the red he bought earlier. It's relatively expensive, compared to his normal fare - more palatable and chosen to impress.

Alex is already sprawled on Graham's bed like it's his own, one leg stretched out fully, the other pulled up so his knee points to the ceiling. He's got his own cigarette smouldering between two elegant fingers of his right hand, and he occasionally brings it up to his lips to take a long draw, end glowing like embers, before moving it away and exhaling smoke in a steady stream. In the other hand he's got some French novel held open with his thumb and little finger. It's small, a hardback, cover scratched and spine cracking. Graham thinks it's poetry, not through any skill or knowledge of the language, but due to the rhythm and cadence of the lines, words dripping sultry from between his lips.

Well, that, and how Alex's reading it out to him. He's tipsy at least, and so he doesn't cover how smitten he sounds. Graham feels a twinge of guilt at that. Not that he's cheating on Damon, per se - well he is, but they sort of discussed it before Graham left, and it's mostly okay - but that he likes Alex a lot, he really does, but he's not sure he loves him. Well, he might, a little bit? A friendly love. Not that his love for Damon isn't, just, his love for Damon is... not more. Deeper. Different.

It's complicated.

He swills his wine, before lifting it to his lips and necking the whole thing, enjoying the cool of it down his throat, but barely tasting it. He has plans for tonight. Plans which consist of more than just drinking 'til he's crosseyed and then having sex with Alex. Though he wouldn't complain.

He puts down his glass, a bit carelessly - he winces at the emphatic clink of it - and turns to eye Alex's oh-so-casual lounging. He's been desperate for Graham's attention all night. "Take your clothes off." He holds Alex's gaze, feeling a frisson from his neck down, and a warm surge in his groin. It's not time for it, but he enjoys it, oh he does.

Alex smiles slowly, smirks, really. "Alright." He closes the book faux-calmly and leaves it on the bedside table, takes one last drag, before putting it out on Graham's cheap ashtray, rolling up to be seated with beguiling ease, and stripping with little preamble. Graham does the same, having already drunk enough to lull him into a more confident state. He roots through the scattered piles of detritus on the floor around him - stark white paper split by jagged black lines, black pages streaked with red, like spilt blood. He picks up a palette - one he purchased on a whim while feeling simultaneously mellow and achey, missing Damon dearly.

Alex has been watching him the whole time with hungry eyes, but they've cooled as he waited, more to curiosity, as Graham fumbled with shaky hands through various sheets of increasingly irate works to find the paints. They're cheap enough, but vivid too. Graham hopes Alex is either absolutely down for anything, as is his common facade, or just inebriated enough not to be able to take the piss out of him for his idea. He sweeps his camera up in one hand, carrying two brushes - one thick, the other medium - in his mouth, grinning past them like they're rose stems. Alex just raises an eyebrow, seeming wholly unfazed. Like this happens every day. Maybe it does. He knows he and Alex aren't exclusive. And Alex knows full-well of Damon.

He drops the various objects on his bed, and motions with on finger for the other man to wait, which he does, arms folded beneath his head, heel of one foot balanced on the ball of the other, so effortless. Graham grabs a large, paint encrusted jar - originally intended for shitty coffee, now utilised for cursorily washing brushes whenever he seldom uses watercolours, when he's not got much to drink and everything seems a little too sharp so he adjusts the appearance of reality accordingly - and fills it to just below the neck, not wanting to spill it over himself or any of the strewn pages on the floor, on Alex, on his bed: at all, really. There's a lot that could go wrong here. He hasn't really thought it through.

He clambers onto the bed, walking on his knees, and moving to straddle Alex, who rearranges his limbs, dropping both feet to the mattress, as he sits on Alex's thighs, smirks teasingly at the look this provokes. "Not yet."

He opens the body-paints, humming as he thinks. There's black for details, and the rest are all neon shades - yellow, pink, green, orange, blue - retina scalding and perfect for the luminous, fucking gorgeous, man beneath him. Graham picks the medium brush first, dunking it in the water, before drawing it across the black paint, loading the fibres with colour. Alex is looking up at him with pitch dark eyes, and Graham can see the pulse skipping in his chest, his neck. His breaths are steady, though, and he shows no signs of bolting, no skittishness. Graham almost snorts in disbelief - if he were being accosted by Alex with paint and no idea what was going on, he'd be flighty. But then, Alex loves him too much.

Graham isn't going for neatness here, wanting a jagged chaos. It's more suitable of the occasion, of their partnership. Graham uses quick, sketchy strokes, brush traveling where it wants, almost like it's unprompted: an extension of his subconscious. He admires Alex's physicality as he does so, takes in the leanness, so like Damon, only his frame is bigger and there's more of him. There's more of that delightful juxtaposition between masculinity and femininity. He watches the muscles of Alex's abdomen twitch when the brush tickles him, grins down at him.

Once the rough lines are in place - jagged, following no rhyme or reason, absolute creativity - Graham dips his brush into the paint again and far slower, far more teasingly, draws his brush along them, making previously feathered and broken lines solid and unrelenting. Alex is panting a little, but lies still, open to Graham, so open. He places his hand on the flat plane of Alex's stomach, base of his palm against the rise of his hip, fingers curling lightly around his side, as he leans forward to continue a line across a clavicle, and up over the hollow of Alex's neck.

Satisfied, Graham swishes the brush around in the water to clean it as best he can, watching the ink spreading like tendrils through it, before its all swept up into a pale grey vortex. He drags the brush head against the lip of the jar, chasing away an excess of the water, before moving to the colours. Alex's torso is divided unevenly into spaces of various sizes and shapes, mostly quadrilateral, but there are some triangles. Graham chooses the blue first - it's cool and brash and so Alex - and begins filling in one of the larger areas, grinning at how keyed-up Alex is getting below his skin. He pats him lightly on the side, grateful for the compliance.

He fills in spaces in alternating colours, trying to make sure no colour is neighboured by itself, but leaving out the pink, sticking with just four colours. He's saving that. Alex is trembling, and Graham strokes his arm soothingly, leaning in to kiss him every so often. Though he's trying to be neat with the paint, he inevitably gets paint on his fingertips, and so Alex's arm, the side of his neck, is dotted with his prints, colours smearing. He finishes off the last segment, then leans right to grab his camera, inner thigh brushing Alex's crotch, provoking a whimper, the other man squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation. Graham hadn't realised how hard Alex was, focused somewhat single-mindedly on completing this. He kneels higher, tips his head and the camera forward, keeping it mostly modest; only Alex's waist and above can be seen, but the lust in his eyes is evident, black as they are.

Alex bites his lower lip, and Graham knows what's left to do. He licks across the pad of his thumb, thinking somewhat drunkenly that it'll be more sanitary for the purpose than using the uninvitingly coloured water, drags it heavily through the pink, then smears it across Alex's lips once, so he looks wanton and debauched, encouraging Alex to rear up, and kisses him hot and deep, right hand on Alex's neck and his thumb dragging further lines of hot pink across the square line of his jaw, left hand carding through Alex's soft, dark hair.

Graham barely pulls back to speak, every move of his lips brushing against Alex's, and his chest's tight with anticipation, breathing hard. "Let's. Let's get in the shower." He figures it's the most sensible way to deal with them in this state, and he doesn't want to get paint on his sheets more than he already has. Alex nods urgently. He pulls Alex's head back gently by the hair, and picks up his camera one more time, taking a picture for posterity, Alex's eyes glassy and dark, lips obscene, before dropping his camera hastily and ushering Alex with him to his en suite.

\---

It's flat and dusty and achingly boring. Every mile they drive is an abstract quantity, seemingly taking them nowhere, never really drawing closer to anywhere important. Nobody wants them, and they don't want America.

Graham's taken to whiling away the empty journeys in his own small, cramped, bunk, watching distant storms build and break, far, far off on the horizon, hissing when the bus passes over a particularly vicious pothole. Sometimes they'll pass a petrol station, and Graham leaps at the opportunity to grab a drink which isn't stale-tasting water, or lukewarm beer. He's got a newspaper kicked to where his feet are, which he uses to doodle on, since running out of pages in his sketchbook.

It's quiet - thank god - Damon and Alex have burnt themselves out arguing at some point, and their uneasy truce has settled into a peaceful calm. He thinks he heard the driver talking with someone, but he's not sure who. Could be any of them, really: everybody just wants to do something that isn't sit and stare at the monotony of scrublands.

He pushes himself weakly up to being seated, leaning against the low-ceilinged enclosure morosely, curving in on himself, forehead pressed into his knees, arms encircling his legs. He just wants to draw and paint freely, play guitar for people who want to hear him, wants to cry a lot, wants rain and greenery and food that tastes real. Fuck, he misses home.

There's a soft knock on the wall he's leaning on, from beyond the curtains he has drawn, a defence of his misery against intruders who'd wish to try to cheer him up and make him feel worse.

"It's only me." Dave. His voice is neutral and unguarded. He's just checking in Graham because he wants to - he hasn't been pressured into it by either of the other two. On the two separate occasions Damon and Alex tried to bring him out earlier, he'd cussed at Damon, and lashed out at Alex, not aiming to hurt him but not bothering to make his fists impact softly. Both haven't spoken to him since.

So he wants to talk, or maybe just share his space in silence. He's okay with that. Dave is generally undemanding, reliable, not flashy or arrogant like the others. He carefully draws the curtain back, eyes flitting to either side of him just in case, but as he thought, neither Damon or Alex are there. Dave shuffles into the small space, sitting across from him in the same way, back bent to accommodate the small amount of headspace, chin balanced on his crossed arms, themselves resting on his knees. His eyes are assessing, but not judgemental. Graham draws the curtains closed again with a jerk.

It hasn't been easy for any of them. They're a great unit, musically - Dave and Alex, once they lock-in, are nigh-on infallible, and his and Damon's harmonies are pretty great. But outside the bubble of music, and performance, they all clash too much. In a single tour bus, over vast distances, with little appreciation from audiences each evening they perform, and with nobody else to talk to, it's a toxic mess. Graham hadn't ever thought this trip would work out as hellish as it has.

Dave sighs, glancing out of the window, eyes just as uninterested as Graham's by the bland landscape. At first, its rugged beauty was captivating, but it hasn't changed for days now, and it all looks the same. He sees Dave fumbling with something in his periphery, hears the sandpaper sound of a lighter, and shortly smells the smoke of a cigarette. It's proffered to him promptly, and pleasantly surprised, he accepts it wordlessly.

The smoke hits the back of his throat, catching a little, and he coughs, frustration boiling over inside, and fuck, that's all it took; he's been miserable for fucking days, felt shitty the whole time, and he's crying because he coughed? His eyes burn and the beige monotony blurs with his tears. He tries hiding his face, burying it sideways in his knees, staring through the window, unseeing.

There must be a shift in the atmosphere, though. And they're all so attuned that there's no way in hell it'd go unnoticed. He feels a hand light on his head, stroking though his scalp, and Graham can't help the little sob that ekes out of him, shame burning acidic between his lungs. Not that he's crying, just that what he's crying about is so small, it should be inconsequential.

The thin material of his mattress shifts as Dave moves towards him, taking the butt from between his fingers, wrapping his arms around Graham and pulling him close, until he can smell the clean scent that is Dave's, mixed with the smoke of cigarettes.

"'m sorry." He mutters into Dave's chest, and in return, he's sushed, and held close.

"There's nothing to be sorry about." Dave rocks him slightly, and as he speaks, Graham can feel the vibrations, where Dave's chin rests on the top of his head. "It's been bloody awful. Crying is a natural stress-relief, you know. That's why we do it."

Graham nods weakly against Dave's front, cringing as he feels the damp spot his tears have left. He moves to pull away, but Dave just hugs him tighter. "Don't worry about it. Just let it out."

After a while of sitting like that, Graham starts feeling a little stuffy. As always, after crying, he feels a pounding headache coming on, dehydrated, and almost a little woozy. He moves to sit up a little, then raises his hand to press with fingers and thumb at his temples, cursing at the vivid thuds of pain each heartbeat brings. "Fuckin' 'ell!" It's an emphatic whisper.

Dave squeezes his shoulders, then extricates himself, leaving Graham a bit too cool. Doubtless, he's gone to get a drink, or tablets, probably both, but he misses the warmth of contact of another person already. He misses Damon. He misses Alex. He just can't stand them at the moment. Close-quarters and utter hopelessness - mixed with previously incessant infighting - can do that to you. The track marks of tears are drying into an uncomfortable tack on his cheeks.

Dave returns with little fanfare, reliable as ever, a glass of water in one hand, a battered box of paracetamol they managed to bring with them in the other. He's surprised it hasn't been used up by now, with the sheer amount of stupors they've woken with hangovers from. Graham takes the glass from him, clutching it close, hands shaky from the expenditure of emotion, and the bumpiness of the road. Dave seats himself next to Graham, gently, their shoulders bumping. He presses out two pills, depositing them in Graham's trembling hand when he holds it open for them.

He takes a long sip to swallow them, then exhales at length. He supposes it's a relief, having let out all that depth of feeling. He feels less cagey, certainly. But he also feels quite empty. They stare out of the window, letting unvarying images streak past them. Sunset's approaching, probably one of the only sights Graham still enjoys here, except for its glare in his eyes. The sky's fantastic, though, fiery and intense.

Fingers link with his: a capable, broad, hand. He turns to Dave in surprise, and his hand is then clasped between two. Dave's light hair is vivid in the flaming light, pale eyes oddly washed out, looking more grey than blue. His wireframe glasses have slipped down his nose slightly. "Graham, I think you need to understand..." He looks away, all at once, words holding an odd gravity.

Graham blanches. "Understand what?"

Dave turns back to him apologetically. He places his hand carefully on the side of Graham's face, pulling him a little closer as he leans over to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. Graham reels as Dave leans away, smiling sheepishly. He nods down at where their hands are still linked. "All of us."

He leaves like a shadow, Graham feeling so jarred it could easily have been a daydream.

\---

The press conference is fucking awful. It's all inane questions about their personal lives, if there's anyone each of them is seeing, how they feel about somebody or other. He's definitely pleased music's become an actual paying job for them - and the newfound taste of chart success is gratifying - so he doesn't want to sound like a conceited bastard, but he'd much rather talk about music, and the process of recording, than about pseudo-celebrities and be asked meaningless questions he's answered myriad times before.

Damon and Alex seem to hold their own for the most part in these things. Alex couldn't give a fuck about them, that much is clear; it's easy for him, doesn't bother him in the slightest. Damon, on the other hand is always evasive during these things, hiding what he truly thinks behind overblown excuses and lots of smoke and mirrors. It always upsets Graham to see him after these things, nervy and closed-off as he deconstructs whatever walls of character he's put up around himself. It's worse than seeing Damon about to go on stage, psyching himself up and sick to the stomach, in an absolute state, because at least then, he's getting something out of the performance - a natural high.

Dave seems unaffected, as usual. Graham's just downing as much of the beer as he can manage without looking desperate. Each time he lifts it up, he wills his hands steadier, irrationally worried it'll be picked up on from a distance, that it'll be evident on front pages of the tabloids. He just wants to settle into the warm lull of a drink, and a smoke. Maybe do some drawing: that'd be nice.

He jolts from his reverie when an inquiry is directed at him - a good one - about the effects pedals he used on 'Girls And Boys'. Taken aback he laughs a little, then feels bad - it might've come across like he was scoffing - but answers as quickly as he can. Describing why he chose the flanger, the sound he wanted.

And then the attention's off him. Most of it was polite, anyway. The majority of these vultures couldn't really care less about the instrumentation of a hit, just the money they can make from it with spurious misquotes and soundbites taken out of context. Still, he's glad when it is gone, straight back onto Damon. He sometimes wishes Alex were their frontman, just to save Damon from it all.

He looks back at his beer. Almost empty. He finishes it, staring hard at the back of the room.

\---

Damon practically bounces off walls after they finish a performance, and tonight is no exception. He's shirtless and clingy, practically hanging off Graham, wiry form pressed to his side. His cheek's being peppered with kisses, and Graham's pretty sure Damon isn't even aware of what he's doing, let alone the frequency of it.

Alex has been noticeably absent after shows lately, often leaving with girls, sometimes boys, always subtly. Graham's sure he knows why, why one of his best friends has been leaving early, before the alcohol really gets flowing, and as always, guilt splinters through his chest. Dave's gone but he's always been slippery. He might equally have left with someone, or could be partying at a club somewhere. So he's alone with a puppy-ish Damon - or more correctly, there are partygoers and groupies here, but he's not interested in any of them. He wants a drink, but he's so tired. He knows he should go to their hotel and sleep.

He peels himself free of Damon, ignoring the wounded look this provokes. Damon's got his heart on his sleeve, and it's a sure sign he needs to get some decent rest too. He clasps the blond's upper arms firmly, making sure he has his full attention. "C'mon Dames, we should go to the hotel." An almost comical look of disapproval crosses his face, eyes widening and rosy lips opening wide to refute this simple statement of fact. He looks like an ingénue.

He picks up Damon's top from where it fell, stuffs it in a bundled mess into Damon's arms, before dragging him from the back room. His steps are mostly steady - a tolerance to drink building in him, it seems - but Damon is coltish, jittery. He pauses his quick-march before they leave the venue, using the bright halogen lighting to aid his inspection.

Pupils blown wide, even in direct overhead light. Sheen of sweat. Tremors running through him. Straight after they perform, it isn't exactly unusual for Damon to show these symptoms, but there're too obvious, and it's been too long a period of time. "What did you take?!" Graham hisses it with a single-minded venom, desperate for Damon to answer him.

"'m... not really sure." Graham's stomach swoops, like he's falling. Shit. He's not sure what it is and how much. He reaches out to feel for Damon's pulse, flinching at the speed of it, eyebrows furrowing with concern as Damon leans into it, follows his hand when it's removed, looking thoroughly miserable.

He needs to take charge. He's frustrated and worried, and he's the only one who knows of the predicament. And he's not gonna tell anyone else: he couldn't do that to Damon. He sighs, short and hard. "Okay, come with me, quickly."

All things considered, Damon tries his best to help Graham shepherd him. He's surprisingly attentive when he's not awestruck by lights. Graham wishes they could flag down a taxi, but he didn't bring his wallet, and he's unsure if a driver would want to pick up two men - one practically carrying the other. His shoulder aches, and Damon occasionally whimpers in his ear, quite pathetic. Maybe he didn't take too much of whatever it was, and he's coming down and feeling the effects. Damn, does Damon have an addictive personality? What if he does? Will he go out seeking the high again? Is there anything he could do to stop that, if it were the case?

Graham keeps torturing himself with various harrowing scenarios, then tries to reign his imagination back in again. Between that, and the act of walking both him and Damon a fair distance, the alcohol which was in his veins seems to have burnt off, sobering him. Like this, it's easier to worry about the blond man, but quicker to dispel the consequences in his mind: to rationalise. There's still a nasty edge of worry to his every action, and as they head into the sudden warmth of the lobby, Damon clinging tight, Graham's struck by how difficult he must be to deal with when he's surly with wine.

In the lift, Damon sinks to the floor, head between his knees. Graham hopes to god that nobody else joins then in the lift, asks him what's wrong. He's not good at lying at all. Thankfully, the doors close, and they're alone, and Graham feels more free to drop into a crouch and shelter the other man, rubbing his back with slow, reassuring strokes, like Damon's a horse about to bolt. The motion of the lift seems to unsettle Damon, breaths a little gasping, and Graham feels powerless. All he can really do is share his warmth, try to reassure though physical contact.

Once the doors open again, Graham really struggles to get Damon to his feet. He's like a rag-doll, limbs heavy and uncoordinated, but he's trying, trying so hard for him. Graham realises it's probably easiest for them both to go to his room, so he steers them down the plushly carpeted corridor, and into his room, the bedside lamp having been left on, casting a soft, amber light over the small but comfortable space.

He immediately helps Damon to the double bed, pulling back the duvet and then beckoning him to sit there. He sets about removing Damon's shoes, his socks, all his clothes until he's down to his underwear, for sleep, while the other man clutches his head with his hands. Graham feels compelled to fold them and leave them neatly on a chair, hurriedly undressing himself, before setting about readying them both for sleep.

"Come on." He pulls Damon up, leading him to the bathroom. "Use the toilet if you need to, and clean your teeth. You'll feel so much better for it in the morning." There's a spare toothbrush, thank god. He leans against the door, staying with Damon just in case, but he gives as much privacy as is possible, keeping his gaze averted, until he's done with both tasks. His eyes are getting harder to keep open now, and Damon's are closed, for all intents and purposes. He walks them back to the bed as carefully as he can manage, lying Damon down on his side, facing the side of the bed so if he feels he's going to be sick, he'll possibly be able to be sick not on the bed, and thus reduce the chances of suffocating himself. He hopes.

As he walks round the bed to switch the lamp off, he notes a glass for water. Water would be good. Damon's gonna need that in the morning. And maybe drinking some now would do him good. He cradles Damon's head and neck steadily, tenderly, holding the glass to his lips, idly noting for the first time in a good while, his hands aren't shaking. Damon makes a noise when he wants no more, still a good two thirds left.

He leaves it on the table, switches off the light, struck temporarily blind. He skims his hand over the bed to guide himself around it, then crawls in under the cover, pulling off his glasses and leaving them on the floor beside him, before lying supine with his hands resting on his stomach. His eyes begin their painstaking adjustment, and Graham prepares himself to fall asleep lying woodenly and scared.

Damon makes a small sound, pleading. Graham shifts closer, concern eating at him. "What's the matter, eh?" It's stupid, but he'll try anything to soothe him, keep him calm and as happy as is possible. He moves strands of hair from the blond's face, heart pained at the sight of him, sickly. He notes, though, how in the low light, Damon still looks pale, but it's improving.

"'m sorry, Gra." He sounds wretched, and tears glitter in his eyes. Graham moves closer, brushing any which begin falling away with his thumb.

"No, no. Don't be. Not now, okay?" He's struck with not wanting to be hypocritical, not wanting to seem lenient in the face of what's happened, not wanting to push Damon with the state he's in. He leans in to kiss his temple, then lies himself down behind Damon, hugging him tight and hoping his presence is enough of a comfort, feeling the other man's tremors.

\---

Dave's a surprise, in a way. Graham's tried gently to proposition him before, eyes large and round, playing coy, but Dave's seen through his bullshit before and he sees through it now, too. And Dave can put his foot down - if he doesn't want sex he'll say no, and Graham won't wheedle at him like he would Damon, or Alex, though they themselves would barely hesitate in saying yes to him the first time.

It's not like Dave's playing hard to get, and being denied doesn't make Graham want him more. Theirs is an interesting relationship; more one of mutual benefit and the enjoyment of being close and intimate with another, than the passion and lust of his encounters with either Damon or Alex. That's not to say it's not equally as enjoyable being with him. Just different. It almost feels a little less political, when things get tense in the band. It reminds him of the early days, with Damon.

Dave's calm and precise, a mirror of how he is as a drummer. They're currently in a shaded corner behind the gig, air around them cool now the sun's set, and overlapping shrieks and cheers of the crowd at whatever act's currently on is carried to them through the breeze, ebbing and rising with its varying strength.

Graham tips his head against the wall with little care, his overlong fringe falling in his eyes, some strands picked at and carried by the wind. He's warmed by Dave's proximity, and the things he's doing. His mouth's hot on Graham's neck, leaving little nips but nothing too evident, one hand against his neck, the other trailing down to Graham's jeans.

He's half hard already, head swimming nicely with booze. He lifts trembling hands to pull Dave's head up from his neck, and Dave seems almost reluctant to have to stop his ministrations until Graham jerks forward to slant his lips across Dave's, sloppy and careless in an urgent way. He can feel the smile grow against his own, and his chest is awash with an almost floaty happiness. His feet don't quite feel like they're touching the ground.

Dave pulls away slowly, eyes just flicking over Graham's face, taking him in. There's a wistfulness in his eyes that unbalances Graham: he's not quite sure what to think. He tries leaning forward and kissing Dave just to make him close his eyes, but a single raised finger intercepts him, gently guiding him backwards 'til he's leant back against the wall again. Dave's hair is particularly blond in the shadow, cheekbones high on his thin face. There are elements of handsomeness on his face which often go unnoticed, Graham realises. In fact, you could probably argue Dave's the most conventionally attractive of the four of them.

Dave tilts his head just as a rapturous round of applause breaks out after a thunderous crescendo of frenetic drums, bass, guitars, letting out a huff of cynical amusement, and a wry smile. "They weren't that good."

And then he leans in to kiss Graham again, before sinking down, down, to kneel at Graham's feet, undoing his jeans, and looking up at him. Graham spreads his legs, adjusting his stance slightly for stability, gasping as Dave carefully moves his boxers down, takes his cock in hand, gives it a few strokes, then leans in to lick him. Graham can't help reaching one hand into Dave's hair, the other planted solidly on his thigh, nails digging into the thick material of his jeans, biting down hard on his lip to suppress any sound.

\---

Graham storms out of the studio. He's fucking pissed, anger blazing under his skin. His mind's ticking over the last two hours of Damon's bullish and obstinate tendencies in a loop each time logic tries to step in, stoking the fury broiling in the pit of his stomach. He's laid down track after track, playing what he fucking feels - what he knows is right for the song, a perfect answer to Damon's words, and even more so: his intent - and each and every time Damon's found fault where there is none. And Graham goddamn knows there is no fault to what he's playing.

He misses when the writing felt like a partnership, Dave and Alex reliable, steady, Graham and Damon using their rhythm as scaffolding to build on. Now it's mostly Damon spearheading, Graham gritting his teeth for every new take, Alex throwing jibes as often as he goes through a cigarette. Pretty damn frequently. Dave sort of huffs in the corner and hunkers down for the long-haul.

Graham realises his hands are balled into fists at his sides as he stalks down the corridor, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He has a single-minded intention to march down to the nearest pub and get plastered.

But first, a smoke. He spies the toilets, and after glancing furtively around for anyone tailing him, ducks inside, shouldering the door open. He fishes his lighter from his pocket, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, and pulls free a cigarette from the box wedged in the other pocket, surely battered and creased by now. He tries flicking the flint once, twice, before holding the cigarette close, cursing vituperatively as his hands shake, the adrenaline in his system making him antsy, the urge for a drink exacerbating it. He takes a sharp draw, turns to eye himself harshly in the mirror.

He sees low, dark brows, eyes flinty, mouth pinched, a slight pallor. He thinks he looks ugly when he's angry, and lately, he only ever feels angry around Damon. He ruffles his hair with one hand spitefully, sneering at himself. He rears away from the image of himself, striding from the room with a singular purpose - alcohol is his sole refuge when things get way too bad between them - sweeping the door open with an ease borne of excess energy. It slams behind him, almost masking a faux-polite cough from behind him.

Graham freezes, stomach dropping.

Damon's a very predictable creature, once you get to know him. He likes certain foods and certain drinks, likes his clothes casual, has a process for writing, thinks he's always right. Damon and Graham have been in each others' heads for long enough now to know the shape and flavour each other's thoughts. Alex is... Well.

Alex is behind him.

Graham pivots slowly, finding himself being looked up and down vociferously. He balks, almost shocked by the appreciation shown so clearly on Alex's face. Alex is himself lounging against the wall in a way only he can pull off, debonair, louche. Smoke curls from between his lips and his fingers as he drops his hand back down to his thigh, posture terrible and it suits him. Sometimes, Graham thinks he'd have been better off having never met Damon, never met Alex, never met Dave. Well, Dave's not too bad on his own.

But in the context of this triptych he's managed to call into being - three relationships, each with a bandmate, each decision screaming out at him that it would be a massive mistake - they all ruin him. He's ragged round the edges, being pulled three ways at once, but he couldn't have done this any other way. He loves them all, differently.

Alex pulls out of the slouch, using his shoulder to push away from the wall, dropping the cigarette carelessly and stamping it out with the air of having barely expended time on the action. He's tall and thin, and his jeans and jumper are tight. Graham swallows, eyes wide like he's about to be caught. Maybe he is.

Alex steps towards him - and how does he make each movement that sinewy? - eyes inscrutable. Graham's heart stutters and he takes an involuntary step back. Alex just smiles wider, teeth showing. So Graham stands his ground. He pulls his scapulae back, chin up, lifting his cigarette to his lips: tries for arrogant. He's not quite sure what Alex is going for here; it could equally likely be confrontation as seduction. And the worst part is, Damon's so predictable he might've grudgingly stared across the studio at Alex in a silent plea for him to get Graham to return, knowing he'd be the only one able to bring him back. That riles him.

"Why are you here?" Alex tilts his head at him, eyes flitting over Graham's face, seemingly reading the level of bullshit he can put up with. With slender fingers he plucks the cigarette straight from Graham's hand, takes a drag, before dropping in on the floor, putting it out in much the same way as he did with his own. He breathes out the smoke, Graham blinking slightly as a small amount of the acrid haze hits his eyes.

"Damon asked me to." Alex shrugs, seemingly unbothered with basically having been whored out. Graham knows he feels both triumph and irritation. Victory at Damon admitting Graham trusts him more in this situation, annoyance that he was practically given permission by Damon: deigned to let them be together, for the sole purpose of quelling Graham's wrath, bringing him down to reasonability, stopping him from getting the drink he wants.

"Go and tell Damon to piss off." He's glad that his words haven't come out as a squeak, but it's a near thing; Alex is closer than before - looming, just looming - and Graham's heel collides with the wall behind him before he even knows he's stepped back, and then his back hits it, and his palms splay against the cool, smooth paint on the wall. It's grey-blue. And the sky through the windows, small and high on the wall, visible as Graham tilts his head back to meet Alex's eyes, is grey-blue as well.

"I can't very well tell him that, can I?" Alex smirks lazily, reaching out to stroke Graham's cheek. He can feel the heat between them, they're so close now. Graham bares his neck, gasping as Alex parts his lips with his thumb. He barely has time to take a breath before Alex presses their lips together.

\---

It's a strange thing. He's sober, has been for long enough it's itching at him. Graham leans against the doorframe into the small recording space, just watching. He's been there for a good five minutes.

Alex left with a foul-mouthed slew of abuse, delivered in Alex's typical way, filled with poise and not a hair out of place, except for the ones which have found themselves perfectly messy, suiting the disreputable look which seems to have become his trademark. Dave vacated not long after, in a surly silence which somehow feels like it's aimed at all of them and himself, instead of the purely Damon-centric displeasure Alex seems to feel on a regular basis.

The studio's dark, shadows stretching away from the desk lamp resting on top of the piano Damon's sat behind. The light's warm, sweet, but with little strength, like a meagre little flame struggling to take. It washes over the glossy black finish of the piano, looking like silk made solid. Cables snake across the floor, and amplifiers hulk against the walls. Each of them has laid claim to a quadrant of the room, but to varying extents. Alex's bass sits close to the centre of the floor, Dave's kit almost acts as a barricade in his corner, and Graham contents himself with facing the amps when he plays.

But now - late, the room filled with hushed silence, dark stretches of distorted shade thrown by the weak illumination - it feels like an abandoned church; the atmosphere heavy with the anticipation for some sound, not feeling quite right without.

Damon's seated at the piano, staring at the unblemished keys with an intensity Graham doesn't recognise; it's too weighty, no hint of the levity Graham used to expect from him. His feet are planted wide apart, though the stool is still close to the body of it, and his right foot is still inclined towards the sustain pedal. He looks tired in the golden light, shadows deep under his cheeks, across the sockets of his eyes, making him look nearly sinister, hair oddly coppery. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped between them, under the keyboard. He almost seems to be asking for penance.

An ashtray is placed on the opposite side of the lid of the upright, the practically untouched cigarette still smoking, thin shreds of vapour coiling and twisting as they ascend. Graham's rarely seen Damon like this over the years, though more commonly when they were younger, loved brighter but less deep, less complicated - quiet, contemplative, perhaps even sorry - because usually Damon will realise he's there, snap out of whatever mood he's in, and plaster a grin onto his face which would quickly become genuine, his delight at being with Graham clearly telegraphed.

Seeing this feels a tiny bit perverse; it's one of those facets of himself that Damon hides so often, so well. But he can't seem to move; he keeps thinking he will, plotting out his actions, but each and every time he wants to, expects his body to move of its own accord - would prefer it to - his feet remain planted, and a little kernel of frustration grows.

What's he thinking about? It could be all manner of things. About the sonic battle their record executives have pitted them in, about how to patch up things between the four of them, how to say sorry to Graham. Hell, he could just as easily be having difficulty coming up with a new chord progression.

Graham's heart twinges at the uncharitable thought. That's not it, clear as day. Damon looks blank, barring his eyebrows which are low, and dark. Graham simultaneously doesn't want to interrupt, fearing spiteful words from either of them might cause another flare-up, but also feels pain at seeing his first love - his best love - like this. He's curious to stay, to rush over and be loyal, but they're both so touchy, all the time, that he's scared.

His throat feels sticky, all of a sudden, and he thinks he might cry if he stands there and thinks any longer. He brings a hand up to his lips unconsciously, as though shocked, but that's not it at all. He feels a little sick, a little unsteady, and it's a painful relief how quickly he's able to turn on one heel and sprint away, footfalls as muted as he can manage, into the deeper shadows of the corridor, out of the studio, and away.

\---

The tour's a drain, playing pieces none of them quite believe in - pieces which initially received acclaim and are now being slated by the press - while fans scream louder for them and not the music, and their critics bay.

It's fair to say none of them are doing great; there's a constant tension in the atmosphere any time one of them's in a room with Damon, so having all four of them leaves the air simmering, hackles up and hissing. They've had a lot of fights over the years, but now they're more frequent and with a brutality which horrifies in hindsight. Graham hadn't realised they had such hate in themselves, least of all for each other. It's no longer them versus the world, in a ragtag little bunch with so much potential - just their egos, and jealousy.

Sometimes Graham wonders if their fights would be just so bad if he'd never flirted with Alex in college, never let Dave kiss him. Maybe it's his fault.

Damon's stalking around in the backstage area, shirtless and ruffling his hair with a threadbare towel, glowering and trying to hide it with a sarcastic smile. His eyes keep sliding towards Graham with a hunger that makes him shiver. Alex is still fully clothed, seated just so in a chair with one leg nonchalantly slung over the other, flute of champagne held elegantly, eyes tracking between Graham and Damon with some regularity.

Graham downs the rest of his beer, eyeing the remaining bottles. His head's swimming pleasantly, has been the whole evening, really. It's easier to block out the crowd that way, and just play for himself. He holds the empty bottle between the flats of his hands, moving one forward and the other back repeatedly so it spins, fidgeting. He's not sure if he should sleep with Damon tonight, and he's drunk enough that he doesn't really care.

He comes to this grudging resolution, and as soon as he does he stands, a bit wobbly, limbs feeling not quite synchronised with his brain. He looks down at himself jerkily, fidgets for a moment until he realises the bottle's still in his hand, and tries turning from the waist so he can reach out to the table with all the drinks and place it back down where came from, but he doesn't have the range.

Suddenly, Damon's sidled up to him, chin on his shoulder, arm tight round his waist, the other hand reaching towards his hand to guide its position, and he's bodily shifted slightly to his right by Damon, so he can actually place it down. Not for the first time, he feels a wash of cold down his back from the loss of initiative that's been coming more and more frequently as he drinks, but it's not enough of a loss of function to trouble him for too long; not when Damon's pressed lankily to his side, breath hot against his neck, hand possessively splayed on his waist.

Graham leans into Damon, who takes this well. He guides them out and to the nearby hotel with palpable excitement, barely registering the occasional looks thrown their way by people still out at the late hour, prompted by Damon's complete disregard for societal norms. Had Graham been sober, he would've shrunk away or laughed nervously, but he feels mulish and irascible at the smallest things these days, and he can't be fucked with people's prejudices.

He turns to whisper in Damon's ear. "What are you going to do with me?" He goes for seductive but it sounds far more blasé than he was intending. He hums to himself, consciously pitches down his voice. "Are you going to throw me down on the bed?"

Damon turns to him, smile surprisingly giddy. Maybe it's because Graham's finally willing to sleep with him, after months of playing it up on stage, fighting, and afterwards Damon getting down on his knees slowly, eyes vicious, and giving Graham blow jobs whilst never breaking his gaze. They get under each other's skin so well that they can't help but kick back. "I'll do whatever you want me to."

Damon steers him through the lobby, into the lift, and to his room, never once letting go of Graham: if anything, he somehow gets closer. Every time they touch like this, it get harder for Graham to consider that one day they might fall out so badly Graham will need to leave, and it'll be that much harder for him to extricate Damon from him.

Once they reach the room, Damon barely waits for the door to close before he's disrobing, then he's on Graham, pawing at him to encourage his movements, eager hands everywhere, leaving Graham's skin burning where contact is made.

Damon encourages Graham over to the bed, but once he reaches the side of it, Graham pauses and looks Damon hard in the eye. He reads it straight away, pausing, and Graham takes in the blond's immediate shift in posture, features smoothing out and eyes widening slightly, looking attentive, somehow urgent in his stillness. Graham speaks with a soft, steady voice, in direct contrast to his hands - digits trembling, heady combination of adrenaline, arousal, and alcohol singing in his veins - imbuing it with as much calm authority as he can muster. It comes quite naturally, now. He's had plenty of practise. "Get down on your knees."

Damon drops before he's even thought about it, if the slight surprise of the line of his lips is anything to go by. Graham reaches out to stroke under Damon's chin, draw his face up in the same motion. Damon's eyes keep skipping to his crotch almost guiltily, but Graham steers his head to be pressed against his lower abdomen instead, watching with a small smile as Damon closes his eyes, eyelashes dusky shadows on his high cheeks, nuzzling into him. It's just for a brief moment, but a warm contentedness spreads through him, and it's the best he's felt for an awfully long while. He always forgets how vital Damon is to him until he has to go without.

He ruffles Damon's hair slightly, lovingly, to alert the blond to open his eyes, and he's met with a look of pure wonderment. Damon's a gift when he's like this. Soft and open, nothing like in the studio. Graham sits, adjusting his legs wide, grinning as Damon's eyes dart back to his cock, and leaning down to kiss him sloppily, before drawing him forward: closer.

Damon rests his arms on Graham's thighs, and his sides are warm on the insides of Graham's knees. Damon looks up, once, kisses him quick, before leaning down to take the head between his lips, circling the base with his hand, his other stroking Graham's flank, causing Graham to let out a breathy sigh.

\---

Iceland's freezing, and Graham's feeling the brunt of the isolation they've willingly found themselves in. The upheaval's made him cagey and automatically suspicious of the others' motivations and actions. And he's drinking a lot now, almost all the time, and a small part of him knows he should really stop, get help, before something doubtlessly happens, but it's such a relief to not have to think and worry and be self-conscious, that he doesn't make an effort to. Besides, he's not the only one with addictions.

He feels a little jolt through him, a little burst of illogical, hypocritical anger. Damon's been taking heroin, he learnt recently. Says it helps his process, that he's more inspired and willing to experiment than ever before. He's listened to Graham, apparently - after the mess their last album turned out to be, he kind of had to - and they're incorporating elements of music Graham's liked for a long time, and Damon's claimed to despise. But he's angry at Damon for being so fucking careless as to take that drug.

He's not entirely blind to the double standard.

It's great to be able to put his all into the sounds, just say what he thinks should be communicated through jagged slashes of chords and jarring, discordant scales, and have Damon take a step back and look at the bigger picture. It's actually been fun, a lot of the time; it feels like music to be proud of - variably angry, intriguing, unsettling, exuberant. It feels worthwhile, but most of the time he's smashed. He's not quite sure how he's playing what he's playing, and most of what he does remember is in fragments.

The grooves in the brick wall are evident against his back, eyes staring blankly past his glasses, one leg crossed in front of the other. His left arm is clamped around his right, which dangles loosely, a cigarette clutched between his fingers. It's cold out, his breath forming lazy tatters of vapour which are carried away by the wind. His fringe is lifted by it, and flutters against his brows. He's feeling stubborn and bitter, for no reason other than life is grating at him, and he wants out, somehow.

The door around the corner screeches open, then more excruciatingly drawn out as it shuts. Graham clenches his teeth and sets his shoulders, bristling as he imagines the various possibilities. Mostly Damon. Coming to shout at him to get his life together when his is so clearly not, or worse fucking pity him and beg him to stop. What doesn't enter in his head is that it could be anyone but Damon; lately, the blond's been all he can think about, haunts his every moment, his hair and eyes and skin and smile, the feel of his touch burnt into his mind.

So Dave is an unexpected surprise, and - unfairly for the man - both a pleasant outcome and a disappointment. Graham wishes his head would just get in gear and sort out what it feels about Damon, but that hasn't happened yet and clearly won't happen any time soon. He shakes his head, as though that will physically clear his mind's eye of everything about Damon.

Dave smiles at him mildly, leaning against the wall next to him, but not touching. It's peaceful companionship in a way Graham frequently finds himself missing when he thinks back to even just a few years ago - he's envious of his past self. He nods at Dave in greeting, and turns back to the cold vista before him.

They don't speak - not once - though Graham can tell Dave is itching to; the space around them laden with anticipation, and from the corner of his eye, he keeps seeing Dave turn slightly towards him, or open his mouth slightly, then abort the motions swiftly. Graham doesn't acknowledge this, just keeps resolutely staring ahead, idly flicking ash, and smoking until the cigarette's burnt down to a butt, trying to exude confidence whilst the whole of him is shaking. He drops it to the ground, pressing down on it with the ball of his foot, intending to ask Dave what he wants to say when he looks up, but the drummer's already gone.

Graham blinks, a little hurt, then realises it's not like he's been easy to be around lately. Dave's been more than patient, and Graham not at all. He sighs, head falling back against the abrasive surface, shivering.

\---

He fucking hates him and he loves him and it's all so frustrating, Graham can barely stand it. They're skin to skin from the waist up, jeans still on, though Damon's belt is on but undone, clinking. He grabs the hair at the back of Damon's head, clutching tight and forcing their lips together, ignoring the hiss of pain it evokes. Damon's clawing at his back to the point it stings, and Graham reciprocates in kind, pulling Damon flush to him and herding him backwards with a single minded intent until they reach the wall, pushing the blond roughly, sneering as his eyes flash.

Damon growls low in his throat, low and dangerous, something Graham hasn't ever heard before - or at least, doesn't remember, and honestly, he's pretty sure he'd remember that, he'd touch himself thinking about that - and Graham feels arousal flood through him in a warm frisson from between his legs, throughout the whole of him. Damon walks towards him deliberately, bruised shapes colouring his clavicles where Graham bit him.

Graham backs away at the same rate, trying to play coy as Damon advances, eyes flinty. They reach the wall opposite, Graham sinking into it as Damon crowds him, reaching around to the small of his back to pull their hips together, both moaning at the pressure. Damon kisses him, sloppy, hot, licking his tongue into Graham's mouth easily as he rolls his hips forwards, smirking through the kiss as Graham whimpers and melts.

Graham hooks one leg around Damon's waist in a desperate bid to get them even closer, tilting his head back to gasp in a breath, and being overwhelmed as Damon begins mouthing the juncture between his neck and shoulder, his collar bones, traces his teeth along the side of his neck, laves at the spots of pain left in his wake. Graham feels a desperation he hasn't felt for years, nails pressed hard into the firm muscle of Damon's back - but he doesn't seem to notice, thrusting against Graham harder - a saturation of sensation that reminds him of his first time with Damon, more than a decade ago.

Graham's eyes are closed so his head reels as he's pulled away from the wall, guided forcefully over to the bed, pushed down. He curses, a litany of expletives. Damon roughly pulls at his jeans, his underwear, and Graham wriggles urgently in a bid to help him. Damon strips himself with the same ruthless intent, before climbing onto the bed and pouncing on Graham, holding him down and still with his body. Graham happily resumes clutching at Damon, leaning up to bite at his shoulder frequently, as Damon keeps moving his pelvis against Graham's thigh, breaths getting more ragged against Graham's neck until he comes with a guttural cry, hips stuttering.

Damon takes a moment to adjust, breathing heavily, before pulling back, moving to balance on one arm whilst he strokes Graham, staring flatly down at him the whole time, lips curled in a way which suggests apathy. Graham doesn't care, instead losing himself in the cacophony of feeling, eyes scrunched shut, heels digging into the bed, and back arching as he comes, unable to hold back a gasp, but Damon's there, steals it as he slants their lips together, like a promise. Of what, Graham isn't sure.

There's a moment or two of pause, Damon looking him up and down dispassionately, before he turns away, pulling back like he can't bear touching Graham for any longer than he already has. He swings his leg round so he's no longer straddling Graham in a singular, easy sweep, hops off the bed, and strides to find a washcloth, a towel, anything, and returns with a damp flannel, having already wiped himself off. He does the same for Graham, in cursory movements, the act itself taking him unawares, but he's not yet with it enough to thank him, only watch it happen, watch Damon drop it on the floor and promptly redress in an almost clinical, sangfroid manner, disgust practically palpable, back straight and face bland. He strides to leave, uncaring of whether anyone passing in the corridor might see Graham, throws open the door, and is well out of sight before the door slams shut. Graham feels the gust of air clearly across his bare skin. He's shaking.

He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, almost unable to push them into place properly, hands trembling as severely as they are, before propping himself up on his elbows unsteadily, blurry gaze flitting between the door, and the washcloth and himself in growing horror, the fact that he's effectively been kicked out of the band dawning on him with a cruel sharpness that cuts through any of the remaining afterglow he should be feeling.

\---

They're both very different people, now. Graham's released enough solo albums to rival Blur's output, grown and become more content in himself, kicked the booze and though his nervous mannerisms have multiplied, he's happier with himself than he can remember feeling since he was a teenager. He feel like that should be a non-sequitur, but it's true.

He treads carefully around Damon, and he around Graham; like wolves, they're wary, their territories crossing for the first time in so many years, and Graham doesn't have the luxury of drink to hide behind, do the living for him. Damon looks good - it's not like he didn't know this, he's kept up to date with his projects as the years have gone by - looking more rugged, stubble a nigh permanent shadow on his his sharp jaw and cheeks. He's filled out more from his previously lean, ethereal, prettiness, and masculinity looks good on him, so much so that Graham feels a twinge of interest in his gut upon seeing him. But his mind is unclouded, now, and so he knows he doesn't want to leap at something when he doesn't even know his own standing with the man.

So they circle around each other in ever narrowing spirals, pulled inexorably closer. The whole time, Graham feels Damon's eyes on him just as he eyes the blond: with interest, suspicion, curiosity, and a desire to be open.

They still manage to avoid each other at every opportunity. Graham was sure Damon hated him, and in defence he's spat much vitriol, so he's unsure and unbalanced, worried he'll be met with narrowed eyes, angry words - or worse, Damon might just laugh at him, walk away.

So when it does happen, it's with surprisingly little fanfare. Damon smiles at him without pretence, and Graham can't help but respond in kind: small, genuine, heartfelt. And Damon hugs him - hugs him tight - and somehow, he thinks they might be okay. After years of perceived animosity, and lashing out to save himself, he's absolved.

\---

Playing live again with his best mates is incredible. Irreplaceable. He doesn't know how he went without. He doesn't know how it got so toxic, to the point that he'd rather be anywhere but near them, Damon especially.

He's grinning fit to burst, cheeks aching as he hunches slightly over his guitar, and Damon's smiling right back, face open, soul bared to him. His voice is a little huskier than it used to be, but he gets the appropriate mannerisms for each song's era perfectly, leaping maniacally for their early stuff, legs well of the ground, evoking their youthful riotousness so well, hopping across the stage for 'Girls And Boys', before pulling back into a moody baritone croon for songs from 13.

It's like being home again, so familiar: they're his family, found family. He's missed them so much.

\---

They skirt around the obvious unresolved thing between them with about as much subtlety as they did back when they were teens. Graham feels warm and comfortable around Damon, and the mellowness Damon's developed is welcome, and cosy. He feels protected around him.

Damon's habit of not observing personal space has come back full-force, and in interviews, he's more likely to be leaning in to Graham's neck to whisper to him and chuckle than pay much attention to the interviewers. He holds a depth of feeling within him which harks back to being young again, when the intensity of it was almost enough to scare him.

Damon recognises as well as he that there's a potential for them, their rapport remaining strong and evident, if less fervid, relaxed more into a peaceful companionship. It's like they used to be - like during those long, golden summers - and Graham feels so much hope and joy he can barely believe it.

"Shall we go out?" Graham's heart lurches then beats hard, stomach suddenly awash with nerves and excitement. He looks straight at Damon with flighty eyes, is encouraged by the softness there, lines at their corners showing Graham just how much he's used to laughing and smiling now. Graham bites his lip and nods, not aiming for coquettish but probably stumbling on it, if the quick, impromptu scan up and down him he receives is anything to go by.

They leave casually, walking the ten minute journey in ceaseless conversation, Graham's hands in his pockets whilst Damon's got one arm slung over his shoulder, other hand moving wildly as he talks, and the time passes so easily. They seat themselves outside a little artisan café, enjoying the heat of the sun on their skin. Damon's got his shades perched precariously on the top of his head, and as he speaks the sun glints off. He's leaning across the small table most of the time, voice muted slightly as they talk so it feels like they're having a gossip, and it's just so nice - effortless friendship, air fresh as it can be in the city centre, heat on his back, a surprisingly decent cup of coffee before him. They're finally being adults with each other.

Their discussion meanders through various topics, expansive, and never truly divisive, more teasing than anything, and a deep-seated warmth is rooting itself under Graham's sternum. He's not feeling the urge to drink - even if he did, he's certain the clarity he feels, and the pure enjoyment of the moment, means he'd hold back just to be able to fully experience it. He can't stop smiling - smiling at Damon, for him, a little - because he loves Damon, never stopped, even when he was at his lowest.

Towards the end of their lunch, Damon sobers somewhat, eyes going serious and slightly melancholy. He holds Graham's gaze quite intensely, mouth opening like he wants to say something, moving forward to the edge of his chair, hands flat on the table, one edging towards Graham's. He sighs, lips moving into a pout, and his head tilts and turns to the kerb as though he needs to put his thoughts together.

Graham waits, curious, but not worried; he can feel the interest and desire to just spend time together is mutual, and he's willing to wait to hear it: isn't scared of emotions being vocalised, and made real anymore.

Damon pulls back, blue eyes imploring, moving closer, voice hushed and rich with feeling. "Graham, we both know this, I think, but we never said it enough, and never at the right time." Flashes of memory course through his mind, of drinking until he was sick, punishing himself and Damon with his foul moods, Damon's own destructive tendencies. "But I love you, and you love me. I'd like us to try again, if you're willing, and comfortable. I don't want to push you too far. I don't want us to repeat the same mistakes." He draws back at that, looking oddly vulnerable, and Graham sees the ghost of Damon's younger self there, eyes sweet, and faltering just slightly, to fully express all that he wants to.

Graham leans to meet him, to demonstrate how much he does want it, slides his hands towards Damon's, proud of how steady they are. They don't shake, and neither does he, and Damon looks down, probably only noticing it at all for the absence of it. Damon looks up, blinking with astonishment, smiling until the corners of his eyes begin creasing. Graham answers him in kind.

\---

Graham comes to slowly, squeezing his eyes closed in displeasure at the light streaming through the crack in the curtains where he rather carelessly pulled them shut the evening previous. Then again, he was rather preoccupied.

Damon's warm beside him: almost too warm. He's always been like that, hot-blooded in both senses of the phrase. The man's asleep, clean-shaven and handsome, face smooth, hair messy. He's prostrate, all edges to him gone in his slumber. The lines of his body are softened by the golden illumination, complimenting his faint tan, his blond hair.

Graham's heart is heavy with feeling, but in a good way. The other man is beautiful inside and out, and his continued presence assures Graham he is, too, to someone who matters - something he's struggled with for years without quite realising it. More accurately, he never let himself realise that struggle, instead hiding behind substance so he never had to confront it himself: a displacement activity which has cost him much.

Damon stirs, the bright light probably having woken him to, and he inhales deeply through his nose, stretching his limbs as he comes into full consciousness. He opens his eyes blearily, and Graham's struck with a memory from the past - of a summer afternoon growing through to evening, Damon languorous and tranquil, shared space and gentle touches: of professing love through art. Such a naive thought, such a lack of cynicism. Graham doesn't think he can ever go back to that, but he feels levity far more frequently and for longer than he ever did during the fractious period of the late nineties.

He places his palm flat against Damon's cheek, feeling contentment as how Damon tilts his head slightly into the pillow so the corner of his jaw presses further into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, smiling small, and warm. Graham strokes errant strands of hair from his face, then leans in to kiss him, chastely, affectionately. Damon brings his arm up to hug him close, and Graham nestles his head in the crook of Damon's neck.

He could stay like this, have this his whole life, and he wants that so much. He slips his own arm around Damon's waist, shuts his eyes and tries to show Damon how much love he feels purely through the contact of their skin.


End file.
